moment in time
by fiddlin' nero
Summary: He's been here before, waiting on news from his brother. No one moment is ever the same as the preceding one. Except in this case.


**summation: **it seems even repetition can be unaviodable. Charlie ponders this as he waits for Don.

**moment in time**

There was a moment in time that seemed to repeat itself more often than anything ever had before.

That in itself was an anomaly; no two moments have ever been recorded as being exactly alike. Not even once.

But for Charlie Eppes, this strange, impossible phenomenon repeated itself on an almost weekly basis.

It happened when he was at home, usually at night, occasionally in the afternoon; not like the time of day really factored into the results, though.

It was after he had done his part for his brother's FBI team. Pulled an obscure mathematical equation out of thin air and tweaked it to apply to whatever modern day conundrum Don Eppes' team faced. Then reworked variables and constants, until the result flashed into existence.

A pattern discovered, a hiding place revealed, and in a flurry the team was gone, dispersing with the utmost confidence to the direction Charlie pointed them in. Finding a weapons cache before it was sent out. Saving the child from the pedophile. Foiling a bio-terrorism plot.

And Charlie was left to wait.

He would return home after carefully collecting his work, after neatly stacking the files on the conference room table, all after he had looked at Don and filled him with good intentions, and himself with the burning desire to see his brother come back unharmed, triumphant.

Anything less, Charlie had come to learn, was unacceptable.

He could go to his office at the university, maybe work on some of his own projects for a change, review his course work, pretend nothing was happening. His mind didn't work that way, though. It was as though he worked for his mind, not the other way around. As long as someone was in charge, what did it matter who?

No, he would go home, and set up camp in his living room, on the chair next to the table which held, among other things, the phone. The phone which would inevitably ring, and be the messenger, relaying Don's fate.

As Charlie sat, his mind would offer up a scenario, one that always seemed the same. From his house he would travel with the team, speeding with the SUV down the streets of Los Angeles to their destination, weaving in and out of traffic, sirens blaring.

Without being there, Charlie knew that Don would be the one driving. He would be the one in control of the situation, just like he was in all other aspects of his life.

Charlie watched in his mind's eye as his brother lead the calvary to the warehouse, the airport, the abandoned farm. He sat silent in the chair, calculations spinning through his head to give him a more accurate reading of their arrival, the protocol they would follow, where Don would set everyone up, and where he would be.

This was where Charlie's mental picture turned fuzzy. Each case was different. The only similarity they shared was the fact that they were all unique from each other.

He couldn't quite predict which agent would be where in relation to their target. This part was always the same. It left Charlie feeling more anxious, every time. As in every case before, he had a relatively clear idea of what was happening, but until after the phone rang, the rest of it was just guess work. Charlie was not a fan of guess work.

He could be with his brother right up to the crucial moment. Then his mind simply blanked. And he was left to wait. Again. Just like all the other cases before. These minutes slowly ticking by, in an exact copy of the last time he sat so tense in this chair, eyes glued to the phone, fingers twitching in anticipation for that shrill ring.

The familiarity of it was almost comforting. To an extent, he liked knowing ahead of time what would happen. He knew how he would act as he sat, waited. Even as his mind lost focus, his eyes grew sharper, taking in every detail around him. He saw his house with an almost hyperactive vision; faint dents in the floor, a slit in the arm of the chair, the clock behind him and to his left reverberating each pass of the second hand deeply through him.

Just as before, he would always wonder why he was so intent on committing every passing moment to memory. Like always, the answer came to him, accompanied by nervous breathing and an ominous feeling at the nape of his neck.

He wanted to see everything as Don had seen it before he left the house, in case it was the last thing they ever saw the same.

In case Don didn't come back.

That way, as he stood back in his house once Don was dead, he could look at the scuff on the floor and know Don had seen it too. He could see the woolen blanket over the back of the chair and remember when Don had sat there last, resting against the chair in a way that made it seem to be the most comfortable place in the universe.

Pictures wouldn't be enough, Charlie knew. When Don died, Charlie would need some sort of physical reminder of his brother. Like the chair. Or his old bedroom.

When Don died.

Charlie didn't even know when he started saying _when _and not _if_.

Not very recently. Long enough ago that it seemed he had always said when and not if. Because one day, Don would die. Charlie would be left behind. His world would end.

But not, he thought now as he sat in the chair, tonight. Because he wasn't ready for that. He never would be, but Don dying today would just be supremely inconvenient.

There were still things he had to say to Don, things that were hard enough to express as is, but to Don? Nigh impossible. His brother wasn't exactly receptive when it came to certain topics of discussion. He could listen, but his own input was limited.

So there were many things Charlie wanted Don to listen to.

He wanted him to hear him say that he loved and respected his older brother; always had, always would. He wanted Don to hear that he was the only role model he had ever needed or wanted. That, according to Charlie, at least, Don was the most impressive person in the world.

Don was brave, fearless, conscientious, understanding, determined. He struggled on through the mire of existence with more bad than good weighing on him, but he never faltered.

He took in Charlie's faults and weaknesses with practiced ease. He was always ready to pull Charlie from the depths of his mind when he was so utterly lost in the numbers he couldn't find his own way back, no matter how hard he tried.

Quite frankly, when Charlie sat back and considered everything, he always arrived at the same conclusion.

There was no Charlie without Don.

Three years ago, had Charlie come to this same conclusion, he would have scoffed and reworked the equation that was his life. Don hadn't always been very detrimental to his development for a number of years; his was a shadowy existence on the edge of Charlie's mind, brought briefly into focus at Christmas, family birthdays, and the odd weekend in the summer before fading out again.

Having a genuine, working relationship with Don felt...right. It was the most natural thing in the world. He often found himself wondering why they had denied themselves their brotherhood for so long.

That was another thing Charlie wanted to ask Don. Did he value their newfound relationship as much as Charlie did? Or was it just convenient timing, a way of all the planets lining up in order for Charlie to help with the cases when he was needed?

To put it bluntly: was it as good for Don as it was for Charlie?

This was always the last thought that occurred to him, and it was this same one that he would ruminate on for the rest of the time he sat unmoving in the chair, whether it be five more minutes or five more hours.

His internal monologue always played out the same.

'Hi there! I'm Charlie. I like math and being completely open about everything. I am most often dependent on my brother, and I can't shut up for two seconds about him. We work together and play together and have an all-around awesome relationship. PS: I love my brother.'

A deeper voice took over for the answer that the Don in Charlie's head would give.

'Don Eppes. I work for the FBI. I have a brother and a father. I also have a gun. The end.'

Charlie sighed to himself. He never knew what Don was thinking, because he internalized everything. Charlie tried to do that once. He'd lasted about three days before he burst and shared with his father his precise opinion on the relation between the hardwood floor and his maroon bedspread in his room. Alan had endured the rant silently, and when Charlie was finished, he made his youngest son promise him that he would never again try to keep his thoughts or opinions to himself, because once he got going, he really didn't know how to stop.

At this point in time, just as with all the other instances in the past, Charlie had made up his mind to confront Don when he came back, and finally share with him everything he had kept from him for so long. That way, when the day came that if turned to when, Charlie would have no regrets. He would have told Don all he needed to. That way he could have peace while his brother was buried.

Like before, this was the point in time in which he had made up his mind. He knew what to say to Don, and how to say it in a way that wouldn't be uncomfortable for either of them. He would make himself understood, without using math. Using only feelings, he would relate to his brother.

And then the phone rang.

Once. Twice.

Two and a half when Charlie picked it up from its cradle, positioning it against his ear and chin.

A deep mental breath, then, "Hello?"

"Charlie." Don's voice on the other end. He could hear the satisfaction in his brother's voice, coming to him down the line. "Listen, I can't talk long, but I thought you'd like to know, you were right. Again." A low chuckle.

Just like all those times before. Don's voice, strong, maybe a bit tired, but still running with the adrenaline. That was all it took to wipe away any resolve Charlie had mustered up for talking to Don about the important things. Hearing his voice was more than enough. He didn't even want to think about a long, serous conversation with Don right now. He just wanted to hear him talk normally, because like before, this time ended the same way as last time. Normally.

"Charlie? You still there?"

He shook himself from his reverie. "Yeah, sorry. I was just reveling in the moment."

"What moment?"

Charlie grinned to himself. "That moment of you telling me I was right. Again. You know, I never tire of hearing that."

Don laughed. "It's nice to see you're as modest as ever, oh esteemed brother of mine." Voices in the background grew closer, and Charlie heard Don answering in a muffled tone. Charlie could see him covering the phone while he talked.

"Hey Charlie. Sorry, but I have to wrap this thing up. The sooner we get these guys processed, the better."

"Out of sight, out of mind, huh?"

"Exactly." A moment of hesitation, then Don spoke again. "You know, if you think you'll still be up for a few more hours, I could swing by once we're finished here..."

Charlie picked up where Don trailed off. "Don't tell me Don Juan is finding himself lacking in a bed mate for one night. Give me a minute to check that the stars haven't fallen from the sky."

"Perish the thought, little brother," came the smooth reply. "Tonight, there is rest for the wicked."

Charlie snorted back his laughter. "Right. Well, head on over when you can and when you get here, try not to get too distracted by the long-neck beauties in the kitchen."

A small happy gasp. "Stellas?"

"Affirmative." Don's choice beer was always stocked up in the house.

"All right, Charlie. And, really, thanks again." A note of professionalism slipped into Don's voice. That usually meant there was some agent or another hanging around him. "Be there quick as I can." A click of disconnection, then Charlie hung up his end of the line before the dial tone could start.

As before, he leaned back in the chair, relief enveloping him. The minutes before Don called were completely gone from his mind, just like before. He cast back, trying to remember what had seemed so imperative mere seconds before the phone call, but his mind drew a blank through the calm that had settled over him.

The case was over, Don was fine, and Charlie was content with life. He allowed himself a few stabilizing breaths, even as the beginnings of recollection knocked at the back door of his brain, politely waiting to be let in. Charlie ignored it. Whatever he had been pondering before the phone call was inconsequential.

A vague feeling of deja vu assaulted him. He shook it off, brushed it aside. Whatever it was, if it turned out to be that important, it would come to him again. Some things could be repeated. Not exactly as they originated, of course.

Sometimes, though, they could repeat. If it really mattered. If the situation called for it.

**end.**

first numb3rs story. i hope it was enjoyed.


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